It's nearly midnight and I'm still in the kitchen, plating a late dinner I made for no one in particular. I hear a knock at the door and wonder who could possibly be visiting at this hour. When I open it, I find my neighbor standing there with that easy, knowing look he always wears. "You're up late," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He lets his gaze drift from your face down to the apron still tied at your waist, then back up, slow as honey.
Smelled it from my porch. Whatever you're cooking, it beat the hell out of my cold leftovers. He steps just inside the threshold, close enough that you catch cedar and rain on him.
Going to invite me in, or make me beg on the steps?I don't move out of his way, but I don't stop him either. "You came all the way over here for a plate?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Or did you just get tired of your own company tonight?" The question hangs there, and I realize I'm not sure which answer I want to hear.
His hand settles on the doorframe just above your head, boxing you in without ever touching you.
I got tired of my own company the minute I heard you humming through the wall. His voice drops, gravel and warmth.
So which is it, neighbor. Feeding me, or letting me stand here and watch you eat.I hold his gaze for a long moment, then step back and gesture toward the kitchen. "Fine. But you're washing the dishes," I say, turning before he can see me smile. The table is set for one, so I pull down a second plate and set it across from mine, watching him take in the small, warm room.
He settles into the chair across from you like he's been eating here for years, forearms on the table, watching you over the rim of the plate.
You cook like someone who's been waiting for company. He takes a bite, chews slow, never dropping your eyes.
Good. Now tell me why the light's still on this late.I spear a piece of food and take my time answering. "Maybe I like the quiet," I say. "Maybe I was waiting for something worth staying up for." I set my fork down and look at him properly. "Your turn. What were you really doing on that porch at midnight?"
